Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Manifestation is Fun
so, three main things i want to manifest:
1. a healthy relationship with my physical body
* continue taking and teaching yoga
* find ways to make money that I really enjoy and where i am not sitting around for 8 hours a day (in the meantime, see about getting my desk set up so that I can stand rather than sit)
* be active
* get at least 7 hours of sleep every night
* stop picking at all of my "imperfections"
* come to terms with having a womanly body
* pay attention to what my body is telling me (eat when i'm hungry, sleep when i'm tired, dance when i feel like it, rest)
* buy nice clothes for myself to celebrate my physicality
* buy a good mattress!
* acquire the proper gear for all of my sporting activities - hiking, biking, camping, yoga
* continue seeing my chiropractor
* continue getting regular massages
* continue taking my herbs
* tell myself something loving everyday until it becomes second nature
* eat plenty of locally grown organic produce
being out of nyc has helped me tremendously with this. i don't have to work constantly and my environment is more loving in general, which makes it easier to be more loving toward myself and others. oh, and chicks with big thighs aren't unusual here either, as there are many cyclists in town.
also, being away from my family helps. as i get grounded here in the high desert, it's been easier for me to shake off some of the hang-ups i've inherited from my family. i accept that my mom is always going to be concerned about my "size" - i choose to believe she's not being judgmental, but that it's her way of showing that she cares. i think body type and size are important in my family because my mom's parents were athletes - grandpa was a swimmer and grandma was a gymnast.
2. to be making at least $1000.00 a week teaching yoga part-time. i'd also like to add to my income by writing, having workshops, reiki, painting, and the amazon herb company.
* continue teaching yoga at northern arizona university
* explore teaching at mountain waves healing arts center
* continue taking classes at mountain waves
* take classes at other studios
* go deeper with more teacher's training and/or retreats
* create writing and yoga workshops and retreats
* find places to do and teach reiki
* write articles about yoga, reiki, the creative process
* introduce my clientele to the amazon herb company
* once that gets going, begin painting more
* continue writing and send work out to editors weekly
* publish articles and poetry and fiction and books
* show paintings, sell work
* quit my day job once i'm comfortable making 50K a year doing what i love
* broaden my circle out to sedona, phoenix, tucson, santa fe, toas, boulder, denver, moab, northern california, oregon, seattle, vancouver, costa rica and on and on
3. travel the western united states via bicycle with my partner and find the perfect place for us to build our eco-home together.
* admit that having a companion who really loves me unconditionally and who is happy and healthy is important to me and something that i need in my life. it rocks!
* continue to explore love and what it means
* continue looking for love and joy in this world - and be grateful for it
* nurture!
* find ways to have workshops in all the places we travel to
* set up poetry/book readings on our journeys
* sell herbs on the journeys
* find land, buy it, build
* have a freakin' huge housewarming!
* live sustainably and happily
Monday, May 26, 2008
You get what you kneed.
There I am a new lizard beside a soft wet egg shell.
I see that I am clumbsy and cute and crawling and drueling.
On a carpet in the late 1960’s where every toy is fumbled with.
I am blond and light and boney with little thin teeth and ready to get involved.
One example, My Dad was painting some window frames, he left the paint brush in a pan and went in to the kitchen, when he came back , he saw me painting, slumping the white paint onto the glass of the window at age four .Little monkey do what he see big monkey do. It was cute, but I guess I got spanked or something.
I actually believe I had all that I needed. There was nothing that I wasn’t receiving that I needed.
Oh maybe big boobies full of beer and flying fairies that could threw me into a glide like a paper squirrel plane as they caught me as I landed in the tropical flumes of warm blue water, while talking parrots filled in for the lack of understanding and creative companionship my siblings were lacking, but I don’t hold it against them.
It was the 70’s! We had wonderfully stupid television shows like this:
And GREAT movies like this:
I listened to some fine music growing up then too:
What I would have liked this child to know is this. You don’t have a “Learning Disability” You simply have a Learning DIFFERENTbility. That’s what I have found, the stupid teachers and such did’nt know enough that I was simply Learning differentabled but abled non the less.
Fully grown adults can be stupider that you can possibly imagine. And so I leave the boy to find his own truths. Truths about work and Money :
.
Truths about the church of Jesus:The truth about love and sex:
and last but not least the truth that life isn’t always about winning the race:
Racing up the Sidewalk circa 1970
.That’s me trailing behind in a race up the side walk 1970 at age 3 &1/2.
As far as getting what you want or need , well, here are some fine gentlemen who I believe got it right!:
I see that I am clumbsy and cute and crawling and drueling.
On a carpet in the late 1960’s where every toy is fumbled with.
I am blond and light and boney with little thin teeth and ready to get involved.
One example, My Dad was painting some window frames, he left the paint brush in a pan and went in to the kitchen, when he came back , he saw me painting, slumping the white paint onto the glass of the window at age four .Little monkey do what he see big monkey do. It was cute, but I guess I got spanked or something.
I actually believe I had all that I needed. There was nothing that I wasn’t receiving that I needed.
Oh maybe big boobies full of beer and flying fairies that could threw me into a glide like a paper squirrel plane as they caught me as I landed in the tropical flumes of warm blue water, while talking parrots filled in for the lack of understanding and creative companionship my siblings were lacking, but I don’t hold it against them.
It was the 70’s! We had wonderfully stupid television shows like this:
And GREAT movies like this:
I listened to some fine music growing up then too:
What I would have liked this child to know is this. You don’t have a “Learning Disability” You simply have a Learning DIFFERENTbility. That’s what I have found, the stupid teachers and such did’nt know enough that I was simply Learning differentabled but abled non the less.
Fully grown adults can be stupider that you can possibly imagine. And so I leave the boy to find his own truths. Truths about work and Money :
.
Truths about the church of Jesus:The truth about love and sex:
and last but not least the truth that life isn’t always about winning the race:
Racing up the Sidewalk circa 1970
.That’s me trailing behind in a race up the side walk 1970 at age 3 &1/2.
As far as getting what you want or need , well, here are some fine gentlemen who I believe got it right!:
We need a new ritual (1st draft)
Jimi was a genius What would he think of the world if he were alive now? Where did the freedom go? Ritual chaos. Not the same as the pounding fast thrash of today - regimented war-cry. No, there was a resonance, a sustain. Our National Anthem completely shredded and put back together so a generation could own it again.
I feel like I’m between generations, a generation without a meaningful song to call our own. Can’t even say punk was my generation.
MTV Top 40 Oblivion, I've never been able to swallow it.
Consume. Consume. I see fire consuming our flag, burning, this time gone, completely up in smoke (and mirrors). Our only choice is to transmute the red, white and blue.
Transmute ourselves to transmute the world. If we only believed that we are already enlightened. (Jimi knew that)
Feet sinking in mud, deep, stuck, torso contorting and writhing. I can’t move my legs, but I want to dance somehow anyway. Writhing here, stuck and sinking. Quicksand, a slow suck sink. But still, I’m compelled to throw my arms in the air and bend over backward.
Liberty, I believe in you. Freedom, you can save me.
No one could spell it out like Jimi. Distorted, contorted Freedom? Did he know that the shit was gonna keep hitting the fan?
Does anybody really know what Freedom is? Talk of Freedom is on the airwaves everyday, while most of my life I’ve experienced one form of slavery or another. I don’t know what it’s like not to work, to have disposable income, or to have a siesta without guilt. I’m just beginning to figure out that there’s no point in worrying about money because I’ll either have it, or I won’t, or I’ll owe it. No big surprises.
Freedom to me is having the ability to put my hands in cool pure dirt and smell its cleanliness, to know that I can grow food that will nourish me. Freedom is the ability to walk wherever I please without having to spend money to do it. Freedom is the ability to love and be loved unconditionally. Freedom is the ability to make choices about my body, to decide if I will have children or not, to have all the choices available to me when I need them. Freedom is not having to work all the time just to survive. Freedom is knowing what I’m eating and where it comes from (back to growing it myself). Freedom is having the time to sit down and have a delicious relaxed meal with loved ones, time to make art, to make love, to read, to write, to have meaningful relationships, conversations, to share ideas, to listen to and to make music.
Freedom is knowing that there is more to life than getting up, going to work, coming home, closing our doors to "foreigners" and "terrorists", flipping on the TV, shopping online, sinking in our fears and closing our hearts and minds to connecting and evolving and making a difference.
We need to start blowing each other’s minds again.
Consume. Consume. I see fire consuming our flag, burning, this time gone, completely up in smoke (and mirrors). Our only choice is to transmute the red, white and blue.
Transmute ourselves to transmute the world. If we only believed that we are already enlightened. (Jimi knew that)
Feet sinking in mud, deep, stuck, torso contorting and writhing. I can’t move my legs, but I want to dance somehow anyway. Writhing here, stuck and sinking. Quicksand, a slow suck sink. But still, I’m compelled to throw my arms in the air and bend over backward.
Liberty, I believe in you. Freedom, you can save me.
No one could spell it out like Jimi. Distorted, contorted Freedom? Did he know that the shit was gonna keep hitting the fan?
Does anybody really know what Freedom is? Talk of Freedom is on the airwaves everyday, while most of my life I’ve experienced one form of slavery or another. I don’t know what it’s like not to work, to have disposable income, or to have a siesta without guilt. I’m just beginning to figure out that there’s no point in worrying about money because I’ll either have it, or I won’t, or I’ll owe it. No big surprises.
Freedom to me is having the ability to put my hands in cool pure dirt and smell its cleanliness, to know that I can grow food that will nourish me. Freedom is the ability to walk wherever I please without having to spend money to do it. Freedom is the ability to love and be loved unconditionally. Freedom is the ability to make choices about my body, to decide if I will have children or not, to have all the choices available to me when I need them. Freedom is not having to work all the time just to survive. Freedom is knowing what I’m eating and where it comes from (back to growing it myself). Freedom is having the time to sit down and have a delicious relaxed meal with loved ones, time to make art, to make love, to read, to write, to have meaningful relationships, conversations, to share ideas, to listen to and to make music.
Freedom is knowing that there is more to life than getting up, going to work, coming home, closing our doors to "foreigners" and "terrorists", flipping on the TV, shopping online, sinking in our fears and closing our hearts and minds to connecting and evolving and making a difference.
We need to start blowing each other’s minds again.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
I Create My Life
I create my life, not a life.
I go beyond the limitation of the physical eye and swim down deep, to the place of where peace and passion begin, the base of the spine, the sleeping snake awake. Walls dissolve and muscles contract. Push and pull of spatial (un)reality. Contour, condor, eagle.
When the eagle and the condor come together, something amazing is supposed to happen to the world. When the Shakti and Shiva unite, we are all One.
I move beyond other people’s fears. I woke up and forgot what fear was—right now, I don’t know what it is. I am just waking up and moving through my life toward whatever I enjoy
Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. Why else do I have this body? Why would I choose to incarnate here and now if I wasn’t going to enjoy it?
* * * * *
I was walking home from work one evening, and as I put the key in the door of my building, it dawned on me that I don’t have to get everything right in this lifetime. I don’t have to do it all! Then I thought, “What a relief!” It was as if I lost 600 pounds.
I go beyond the limitation of the physical eye and swim down deep, to the place of where peace and passion begin, the base of the spine, the sleeping snake awake. Walls dissolve and muscles contract. Push and pull of spatial (un)reality. Contour, condor, eagle.
When the eagle and the condor come together, something amazing is supposed to happen to the world. When the Shakti and Shiva unite, we are all One.
I move beyond other people’s fears. I woke up and forgot what fear was—right now, I don’t know what it is. I am just waking up and moving through my life toward whatever I enjoy
Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. Why else do I have this body? Why would I choose to incarnate here and now if I wasn’t going to enjoy it?
* * * * *
I was walking home from work one evening, and as I put the key in the door of my building, it dawned on me that I don’t have to get everything right in this lifetime. I don’t have to do it all! Then I thought, “What a relief!” It was as if I lost 600 pounds.
© May 25, 2008 Holly Troy
Friday, May 23, 2008
Hyphens
You have just learned that a child has been named after you. What is that like? How do you feel?
Oh baby, a name is a song of fingerprints a thought is just a bubble of smoke.
A name, A handle on the side of the head, a suitcase full of rainy wet papers from Costa Rica.
Monkeys are cute, I want to drink exotic drinks of various flowery colors at an out door bar where the water is as blue as an iris that surrounds a pupil of black.
I don’t care what anybody names their baby anymore Just lay off the Hifins ..high-fans Hi – fans .......you know these things “-“ that join two last names together to make one last name. Stop that non- sense at once!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyphen
Oh baby, a name is a song of fingerprints a thought is just a bubble of smoke.
A name, A handle on the side of the head, a suitcase full of rainy wet papers from Costa Rica.
Monkeys are cute, I want to drink exotic drinks of various flowery colors at an out door bar where the water is as blue as an iris that surrounds a pupil of black.
I don’t care what anybody names their baby anymore Just lay off the Hifins ..high-fans Hi – fans .......you know these things “-“ that join two last names together to make one last name. Stop that non- sense at once!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyphen
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Saying NO
No. Wavering flickering salmon pink. My stomach tightens, loosens, quivers. No. Sorry. No. Uh, no. Uh-uh. Steady flowing cerise. My jaw tightens and sets hard. No. And you know what? I'm NOT sorry for saying it. I'm tired of pretending that I am sorry for saying it, so I will say it again. No. I don't think so. Stop sign red. Big, bold. STOP. My knees lock like bolts tightening on a rickety frame. This girl ain't gonna shake anymore. No. NO. N.O. Burgundy rises from my feet to my knees to my gut. No wavering here, I'm not sucking it up anymore. I'm so present I feel like I'm out of my body.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
A Letter To my Ancestors.
Letter to my ancestors.
Dear folks,
My name is TJK Haywood.(Born Thomas Joseph Kiernan, I am a Grandchild of Elizabeth and William A. Kiernan on the paternal side and the Grandchild of Pearl Wells and Sidney Michael Parker on the maternal side).
I chose the name Haywood for my self actually I can’t help feeling like it was chosen for me when I was 15 years old, at that time I had been recently cured of a life threatening Illness and hence a new lease on life was bestowed upon my soul. A metamorphosis was about to happen. I, not so coincidently fell deeply in love with a woman who’s last name is Hagood at one time in my life.However I have no offsping and the mere possibility of myself spawning with a loved one is pivotally dependent on the survival of the honey bee.( All Food sorces on Earth are endangered as of 2008 in my assessment).
I am also known as Wooden Thomas as a songwriter and Guitar player, I can not sing correctly or keep a steady rhythm, my spelling is so bad that I have to type to you all on a machine that automaticly corrects my spelling for me as I go along, andfir this I am thankfull , because I am one lazy son of a bitch! (I do use the pen nib and the India ink though ,often but mostly for drawing). I can’t live with out creating.
The year as you read this is 1708. Some of you may be receiving this letter while working in a vegetable garden, others may be receiving this while breaking for lunch or “tea” , some of you Irish folks are probably drinking vodka at the pub with the milk of teets dryed on your hands right early in the morning busting jokes about Queen Anne http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_of_Great_Britain . Or maybe you are just waking up, if so, go back to sleep. This letter is going directly into your subconscious anyway and you’ll never remember it.
Your fantasies of the “New World” are noble and understandable.
But I must tell you, the “Indians” you will encounter here are not mere savages they are tribes of intelligent humans who are understandably angry that they will be invaded by you white folks.
I am a man who serves Peace. Peace is my lord . Even when it is difficult to do so I serve Peace. I listen to what Peace has to say, I try to filter out the anger and the distain, even though I fail at being 100 percent Peacful. I will always let Peace prevail for it is my lord.
I do not worship Jesus of Nazareth . I admire him. I do not worship the Buddha of Asia, although I am a fan of his. Mother Mary and others whom you , my ancestors have not yet heard of , Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr , Dennis Kucinich these are people whom share my religion.
There is a Song Written by another decendant of The Drake Family circa 1970. The song is a beautiful song called “Time Has Told Me’’ his name was Nick Drake. My great Grand Parents were Drakes from the same area his family is from ,Tanworth in Arden . I will conclude this letter with the lyrics of this beautiful song for he , like me , is your descendent.
Times will be tough for all of you. But never give up your hopes and dreams because the enjoyment of life is the goal. To party and bond and learn and create break bread and break wind and help others to do so too are the goals.
Many of you, I know very little about. Some of you, from England will have arrived in Brooklyn USA within the next century . All of the Irish relatives, on my paternal side will find home in New Jersey. Do me a favor and keep Brooklyn and New Jersey beautiful , for too much industrialization causes environ-MENTAL Pollution.
The photograph may not have been invented yet, but I have seen a painting of Queen Anne on Wikipedia and Man was she a hot number!
I wish to be with you all one gorgeous and rainy day in a pub, one where people dine as families, where men throw darts and children learn how to drink and smoke.
All the working and dreaming and playing that I imagine you do will survive in my DNA , that is to say my blood, and my subconscious mind , that is to say the deeper streams and rivers and oceans of my brain where dreams come from.
Take good care of each other and Thank You for Fornicating.
TJK Haywood, (Wooden Thomas).
“Time Has Told Me”
by Nick Drake:
Time has told me. You're a rare rare find. A troubled cure. For a troubled mind. And time has told me. Not to ask for more. Someday our ocean. Will find its shore.
So I`ll leave the ways that are making me be. What I really don't want to be. Leave the ways that are making me love. What I really don't want to love. Time has told me. You came with the dawn. A soul with no footprint. A rose with no thorn. Your tears they tell me. There's really no way. Of ending your troubles. With things you can say. And time will tell you. To stay by my side. To keep on trying'til there's no more to hide. So leave the ways that are making you be. What you really don't want to be. Leave the ways that are making you love. What you really don't want to love. Time has told me. You're a rare rare find. A troubled cure. For a troubled mind. And time has told me. Not to ask for more. For some day our ocean. Will find its shore.
Dear folks,
My name is TJK Haywood.(Born Thomas Joseph Kiernan, I am a Grandchild of Elizabeth and William A. Kiernan on the paternal side and the Grandchild of Pearl Wells and Sidney Michael Parker on the maternal side).
I chose the name Haywood for my self actually I can’t help feeling like it was chosen for me when I was 15 years old, at that time I had been recently cured of a life threatening Illness and hence a new lease on life was bestowed upon my soul. A metamorphosis was about to happen. I, not so coincidently fell deeply in love with a woman who’s last name is Hagood at one time in my life.However I have no offsping and the mere possibility of myself spawning with a loved one is pivotally dependent on the survival of the honey bee.( All Food sorces on Earth are endangered as of 2008 in my assessment).
I am also known as Wooden Thomas as a songwriter and Guitar player, I can not sing correctly or keep a steady rhythm, my spelling is so bad that I have to type to you all on a machine that automaticly corrects my spelling for me as I go along, andfir this I am thankfull , because I am one lazy son of a bitch! (I do use the pen nib and the India ink though ,often but mostly for drawing). I can’t live with out creating.
The year as you read this is 1708. Some of you may be receiving this letter while working in a vegetable garden, others may be receiving this while breaking for lunch or “tea” , some of you Irish folks are probably drinking vodka at the pub with the milk of teets dryed on your hands right early in the morning busting jokes about Queen Anne http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_of_Great_Britain . Or maybe you are just waking up, if so, go back to sleep. This letter is going directly into your subconscious anyway and you’ll never remember it.
Your fantasies of the “New World” are noble and understandable.
But I must tell you, the “Indians” you will encounter here are not mere savages they are tribes of intelligent humans who are understandably angry that they will be invaded by you white folks.
I am a man who serves Peace. Peace is my lord . Even when it is difficult to do so I serve Peace. I listen to what Peace has to say, I try to filter out the anger and the distain, even though I fail at being 100 percent Peacful. I will always let Peace prevail for it is my lord.
I do not worship Jesus of Nazareth . I admire him. I do not worship the Buddha of Asia, although I am a fan of his. Mother Mary and others whom you , my ancestors have not yet heard of , Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr , Dennis Kucinich these are people whom share my religion.
There is a Song Written by another decendant of The Drake Family circa 1970. The song is a beautiful song called “Time Has Told Me’’ his name was Nick Drake. My great Grand Parents were Drakes from the same area his family is from ,Tanworth in Arden . I will conclude this letter with the lyrics of this beautiful song for he , like me , is your descendent.
Times will be tough for all of you. But never give up your hopes and dreams because the enjoyment of life is the goal. To party and bond and learn and create break bread and break wind and help others to do so too are the goals.
Many of you, I know very little about. Some of you, from England will have arrived in Brooklyn USA within the next century . All of the Irish relatives, on my paternal side will find home in New Jersey. Do me a favor and keep Brooklyn and New Jersey beautiful , for too much industrialization causes environ-MENTAL Pollution.
The photograph may not have been invented yet, but I have seen a painting of Queen Anne on Wikipedia and Man was she a hot number!
I wish to be with you all one gorgeous and rainy day in a pub, one where people dine as families, where men throw darts and children learn how to drink and smoke.
All the working and dreaming and playing that I imagine you do will survive in my DNA , that is to say my blood, and my subconscious mind , that is to say the deeper streams and rivers and oceans of my brain where dreams come from.
Take good care of each other and Thank You for Fornicating.
TJK Haywood, (Wooden Thomas).
“Time Has Told Me”
by Nick Drake:
Time has told me. You're a rare rare find. A troubled cure. For a troubled mind. And time has told me. Not to ask for more. Someday our ocean. Will find its shore.
So I`ll leave the ways that are making me be. What I really don't want to be. Leave the ways that are making me love. What I really don't want to love. Time has told me. You came with the dawn. A soul with no footprint. A rose with no thorn. Your tears they tell me. There's really no way. Of ending your troubles. With things you can say. And time will tell you. To stay by my side. To keep on trying'til there's no more to hide. So leave the ways that are making you be. What you really don't want to be. Leave the ways that are making you love. What you really don't want to love. Time has told me. You're a rare rare find. A troubled cure. For a troubled mind. And time has told me. Not to ask for more. For some day our ocean. Will find its shore.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Dinnertime!
What's happening at our dinner table? Dad is just folding up his paper and approaching now. He's not fully retrieved his energy from the mire of specifications, blueprints and office gossip.Mom deftly maneuvers a bowl of pirogies against her pregnant belly, jabs the pacifier into my sister's mouth, and raises a meaningful eyebrow at me. I lower the spoon with which I intended to pacify my sister. If I don't put it down gently, Mom will spoil the fun by yelling. She overcompensates. At three, I'm the oldest, and I know this.
Dad sits down. Mom finally dares to ask about his day. Timing is everything. Let him unwind, but don't let him rewind. Ask just before he begins stuffing food in his mouth; the trauma is thus abridged.
I understand her art even before I understand why it is necessary. I have my own art. My sister is my canvas. Sour cream, fried onions, and pirogies are my palette . . . pale, dense, and ideal for flinging. I have to wait a long time before Mom sits down and serves herself. She takes her first mouthful of food.
Timing! I push sour cream onto my spoon, then scoop and fling a bit of doughy potato dumpling into my baby sister's face. She anticipates my move and is ready with her scowl and wail. She knew it was coming. Well, we all knew it.
Stymied by my timing, Mom finishes chewing and wags her fork weakly, adding a forlorn shrug. Dad musters up his office rage and snarls at us. He is always fair. He blames us both.
My sister offers a glare far more intimidating than a two year old typically expresses. She is a master of resentment.
I realize I have mobilized her to action. They can't stop her now. Only from my seat can I see she has inadvertently plunked her bowl down on the edge of the spoon. When she bangs her fist down, the bowl is leveraged into mid-air.
Mom sighs before the first pirogi slithers to the floor. She doesn't yell! She simply looks at my father with a twisting bitterness I had not anticipated.
Why? I had acted alone to instigate my sister's fury! I earned her attention.
I could not understand it, but I could store the memory and piece it together with meaning later. Surely, there would be meaning to flesh out that mysterious look, slinking low and sullen into the wilderness of hidden conflict . . .
Sunday, May 18, 2008
To be or not to be?
Solid, solid , solid, Solid as a rock. I don’t know if I’ve ever known myself to be completely solid. Guess I’m one to enjoy remembering the space between each cell. I’m weird that way. I get more comfort in the thought of space and spirit, than the material.
Used to think money was a solid, a sure thing, but it’s all water and air; the most fluid idea we’ve got going. Money comes in and out like ocean tides. There’s a cycle, but it’s not all predictable. There are tsunamis.
I think I realized my solidness when I became most aware of my height. Probably around the time I caught up to my 4’11” grandmother and surpassed her. The first adult I outgrew. I remember feeling miles away from my feet and knowing that they were completely mine, even if my head was growing away from them.
When I was 12 or 13, I noticed my arms where beginning to have some shape, not to mention some vasculinity that comes with masculinity. I felt my body was profoundly mine. Even though I was changing, I contemplated spending years in this skin. I wondered how long these arms will be here.
Seems the exact opposite of Buddhism or "spiritual endeavors", to be solid, to be here, but it’s not really. Solidness can show that attachment is a mental construct, a denial of the ever changing nature of life. Incarnation isn’t to be transcended, but accepted. It’s not about giving up earthly pleasure, it’s knowing that it can’t be frozen….solid, I guess.
Then there’s Walt Disney, but I get a head of myself.
Used to think money was a solid, a sure thing, but it’s all water and air; the most fluid idea we’ve got going. Money comes in and out like ocean tides. There’s a cycle, but it’s not all predictable. There are tsunamis.
I think I realized my solidness when I became most aware of my height. Probably around the time I caught up to my 4’11” grandmother and surpassed her. The first adult I outgrew. I remember feeling miles away from my feet and knowing that they were completely mine, even if my head was growing away from them.
When I was 12 or 13, I noticed my arms where beginning to have some shape, not to mention some vasculinity that comes with masculinity. I felt my body was profoundly mine. Even though I was changing, I contemplated spending years in this skin. I wondered how long these arms will be here.
Seems the exact opposite of Buddhism or "spiritual endeavors", to be solid, to be here, but it’s not really. Solidness can show that attachment is a mental construct, a denial of the ever changing nature of life. Incarnation isn’t to be transcended, but accepted. It’s not about giving up earthly pleasure, it’s knowing that it can’t be frozen….solid, I guess.
Then there’s Walt Disney, but I get a head of myself.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Absent or Present. Solid, or Empty.
Am I solid? Quarks zip between my atoms and give me no heed. I'm only as solid as needed to support my 12 lb Siamese cat, nestled on my lap as I type this.
I'm only as liquid as the fluids of my body and my Earth and the great hand that swirls its fingers through us. Thales wrote that all things begin with water... I think of the fluid in my eyes which shapes my vision with its precise tension, or the fluid of my inner ear redistributing sound so that I can perceive and interpret it. Even my sense of smell improves when my nostrils are wet or the humidity is high.
Is anything solid? Only my intent to be present here and now.
The rest is ephemeral as hundreds of cattail tufts, blowing toward me in the late afternoon as I walk, or the memory of Mom's Easter bread baking...her secret, a hint of orange zest in the batter.
Is tenacity or strength synonymous with solidity? I cut dill to season my omelet. Before preparing it, I catch a whiff of cat urine left behind by Kia in an effort to mark his territory on my balcony. A few days, and a drenching rain washes the dill clean.
I suppose Lao Tsu has the last word on solidity and emptiness…
Thirty spokes share the wheel’s hub;
It is the center hole which makes it useful.
Shape clay into a vessel;
It is the space within that makes it useful.
Cut doors and windows for a room;
It is the holes which make it useful.
Therefore profit comes from what is there;
Usefulness from what is not there.
something smells
How does the world smell me? Like a flower, generally.
My ex-husband used to call me a "delicate flower." Not that that was a term of endearment. It was actually his way of making a jab at me, a condescending way of pointing out his annoyance at my sensitivity to his cigarette smoking, the crowded streets and subways of NY, my incredibly cruel and emotionally unstable boss, my inability to sleep when the weather got warm due to our apartment vibrating - I mean shaking and making an awful constant pulsing hum so badly that the EPA said it was a bad place to live, and my disgust with the mouse infestation we had in our kitchen. (We threw out a coffee machine because acid from mouse urine had eaten through the wires. I cleaned poop off of our kitchen counters everyday) Oh yeah, speaking of poop, I also did not like the sewage that spewed out of the floor by our toilet bowel.
Why would I not prosper under those conditions?
What made matters worse was when I would try to remedy the problems (call the landlord, take time away from the city, look for a new job or apartment), he would sulk in his smoking corner as if taking action to fix the situation before he was ready to do anything was an attack on him.
Yeah, I'm a "delicate flower." The Rose of the Upper East Side. Who would have thought it could be such a crappy place to live.
How does the world smell me? Like a sun flower, a morning glory, a day lily.
My ex-husband used to call me a "delicate flower." Not that that was a term of endearment. It was actually his way of making a jab at me, a condescending way of pointing out his annoyance at my sensitivity to his cigarette smoking, the crowded streets and subways of NY, my incredibly cruel and emotionally unstable boss, my inability to sleep when the weather got warm due to our apartment vibrating - I mean shaking and making an awful constant pulsing hum so badly that the EPA said it was a bad place to live, and my disgust with the mouse infestation we had in our kitchen. (We threw out a coffee machine because acid from mouse urine had eaten through the wires. I cleaned poop off of our kitchen counters everyday) Oh yeah, speaking of poop, I also did not like the sewage that spewed out of the floor by our toilet bowel.
Why would I not prosper under those conditions?
What made matters worse was when I would try to remedy the problems (call the landlord, take time away from the city, look for a new job or apartment), he would sulk in his smoking corner as if taking action to fix the situation before he was ready to do anything was an attack on him.
Yeah, I'm a "delicate flower." The Rose of the Upper East Side. Who would have thought it could be such a crappy place to live.
How does the world smell me? Like a sun flower, a morning glory, a day lily.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Birthday Happy ! (I must block out the pain!)
Being birthed from my Mother to feel the first cold air of this Earth.
I remember it well, coming into the light, emerging from a comfortable warm womb.
Blue and white and red chunks of blobular gook all over me, I was'nt warned about this trama.
I just had to scream!
A new world, and I can never go back to the womb that held me so snug . I hate this hospitol already. The umbilica cord is cut .
I can't talk or run away. It is a great blessing to be here...but I don't know it yet. This is the best thing ever to happen to be me so far! I am helpless and my Mother she knows great intense pain. A pain of love. Why could'nt it just be easy for her?
I am the friut of the womb and the clouds are moving the Earth and stars are moving in the direction of a new beginng, a new planet. I said it now as it still aplys today Just give me a nipple and I'll be fine, wrapp me in a balanket and it will be alright. Just a big milky nipple and we'll be okay. Happy Birthday to me , I must block out all that pain!
I remember it well, coming into the light, emerging from a comfortable warm womb.
Blue and white and red chunks of blobular gook all over me, I was'nt warned about this trama.
I just had to scream!
A new world, and I can never go back to the womb that held me so snug . I hate this hospitol already. The umbilica cord is cut .
I can't talk or run away. It is a great blessing to be here...but I don't know it yet. This is the best thing ever to happen to be me so far! I am helpless and my Mother she knows great intense pain. A pain of love. Why could'nt it just be easy for her?
I am the friut of the womb and the clouds are moving the Earth and stars are moving in the direction of a new beginng, a new planet. I said it now as it still aplys today Just give me a nipple and I'll be fine, wrapp me in a balanket and it will be alright. Just a big milky nipple and we'll be okay. Happy Birthday to me , I must block out all that pain!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
unedited color
Root Day 2
May 6, 2008
Write about the color red without mentioning the word red.
Blood OXOGINATED. Lips. Joy. The sound of a brass band. Poppies, poppies will make them sleep. The lowest vibation, the bottom of the rainbow. My favorite color.
What about a dialogue with this color, with out mentioning it….
C: Hey! How you doing?
R: Oh, I’m usually pretty cheery, but today I am pissed off.
C: why?
R: Well, I don’t get along well with the other colors. I’m too bright, I’m exciting, and sometimes distracting. Yellow is too mellow, green can really be mean, and don’t get me started on Purple.
C: But I thought purple needed you to exist.
R: yeah, sort of, but once we become ourselves we are really completely different, think of Purple as mine and blues child, and then there’s Orange who I made with Yellow.
C: Guess you got along with yellow enough to make Orange, and if Purple is your kid, what?
R: oh god! Yellow is ok once and a while, but we do contrast a bit, I actually stick out from every other color, sort of more than the other colors. For instance purple will blend with blue and brown, I just pop out. I guess green and orange pop too, but not as much as me. I kind of stand out in the crowd. And Purple is so full of herself, you don’t even know! She thinks she’s the queen of all colors. Barely anyone can wear her for christ’s sake!
C: do you like any of the other colors?
R: Honestly, not really. Hahaha, maybe that’s why I don’t get along with them. The other colors can be so serious. I’m happy, and jolly, passionate, bold, fresh, sexy, scarey. Actually Yellow comes close, I think I kind of like yellow the best. He makes me more firey. Orange is a gas, but he can get a little weird sometime, and he smells. Blue, green and purple and brown, they kind of bring everyone down a bit.
C: They are not all that bad, they can be soothing.
R: I really don’t have any time for soothing! What color is a rash? Or a bite? Or what happens when people fight? Look at most flags of countries, I’m actually the most popular color. No I am, you might think it’s green or blue, but I’m usually the one mixed in with them. Don’t take my word for it, go to the united nations and check it out. I am a sunset, and sometimes I am the rising sun. I’ve been the rising moon on a hot summer day, I am a cardinal appearing in spring. I am the tallest trees in the world. I am a herring. I am handed, I am a light. I can be a dog, a fox, a horse, a cat or monkey. But that aint all, I’ve been a lion, a tail of a hawk, a snapper fish, and ant. I am also clay, I am the clay that made Adam in genesis. I’m Johnny walker, I’m Shirley Temple, I’m a devil. Shall I go on….
C: Sure.
R: I am tape, I am a few states, I am a road, I am a violin, I am shoes, I am rice, I am lobster, I am…I could go on.
C: Tell me what is so special about you that the other colors can’t touch.
R: I am life!
May 6, 2008
Write about the color red without mentioning the word red.
Blood OXOGINATED. Lips. Joy. The sound of a brass band. Poppies, poppies will make them sleep. The lowest vibation, the bottom of the rainbow. My favorite color.
What about a dialogue with this color, with out mentioning it….
C: Hey! How you doing?
R: Oh, I’m usually pretty cheery, but today I am pissed off.
C: why?
R: Well, I don’t get along well with the other colors. I’m too bright, I’m exciting, and sometimes distracting. Yellow is too mellow, green can really be mean, and don’t get me started on Purple.
C: But I thought purple needed you to exist.
R: yeah, sort of, but once we become ourselves we are really completely different, think of Purple as mine and blues child, and then there’s Orange who I made with Yellow.
C: Guess you got along with yellow enough to make Orange, and if Purple is your kid, what?
R: oh god! Yellow is ok once and a while, but we do contrast a bit, I actually stick out from every other color, sort of more than the other colors. For instance purple will blend with blue and brown, I just pop out. I guess green and orange pop too, but not as much as me. I kind of stand out in the crowd. And Purple is so full of herself, you don’t even know! She thinks she’s the queen of all colors. Barely anyone can wear her for christ’s sake!
C: do you like any of the other colors?
R: Honestly, not really. Hahaha, maybe that’s why I don’t get along with them. The other colors can be so serious. I’m happy, and jolly, passionate, bold, fresh, sexy, scarey. Actually Yellow comes close, I think I kind of like yellow the best. He makes me more firey. Orange is a gas, but he can get a little weird sometime, and he smells. Blue, green and purple and brown, they kind of bring everyone down a bit.
C: They are not all that bad, they can be soothing.
R: I really don’t have any time for soothing! What color is a rash? Or a bite? Or what happens when people fight? Look at most flags of countries, I’m actually the most popular color. No I am, you might think it’s green or blue, but I’m usually the one mixed in with them. Don’t take my word for it, go to the united nations and check it out. I am a sunset, and sometimes I am the rising sun. I’ve been the rising moon on a hot summer day, I am a cardinal appearing in spring. I am the tallest trees in the world. I am a herring. I am handed, I am a light. I can be a dog, a fox, a horse, a cat or monkey. But that aint all, I’ve been a lion, a tail of a hawk, a snapper fish, and ant. I am also clay, I am the clay that made Adam in genesis. I’m Johnny walker, I’m Shirley Temple, I’m a devil. Shall I go on….
C: Sure.
R: I am tape, I am a few states, I am a road, I am a violin, I am shoes, I am rice, I am lobster, I am…I could go on.
C: Tell me what is so special about you that the other colors can’t touch.
R: I am life!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Jimi's Star Spangled Banner.
I am listening to Jimi Hendrix’s Star spangled banner. It is wild and goes out on many limbs in a short period of time. It reflects the time and day it was recorded.
Young America yearning and breathing true freedom. It was 1969.
The end of a three day non stop party in the mud. When People left the concert to give birth, it was like leaving home. It’s a familiar melody, it took on new meaning. It was the end of a great era. What colors do I see? The mud browns and the grassy greens. And the off white litter on the field of that morning. The blonds and brunets, the hair of liberal proportions .I don’t remember the color of Jimi’s bandana or the color of his guitar, just that America was going through some real shit and having fun and just being free. It really was about Peace and Love and Music and the acid and the pot and the dawning of the age of Aquarius.(What ever that means). There was a war going on and everyone knew it was stupid.
I am listening to Jimi Hendrix’s Star spangled banner…I can hear violence in it, it has some scary moments. Some screeching and way far out there wobbling parts. Some fire works reminding us of gunfire.
Thinking and reading about the Woodstock 1999 concert riots I saw on Mtv. Concertgoers were tipping over vender stands and starting huge bon fires, they paid like 200$ a pop to get in. They were mad . People were sexually molested. They had to get corralled into flat bed trucks to be transported like livestock to the site. It was demeaning. The outrageous prices these concert goers paid for bottled water and commercial foods ,like pizza hut were disgusting 4$ a 12 oz. bottle of water, 12$ for a personal pan pizza. Advertisements everywhere. This was 9 years ago. And now there is a war going on and I hope the majority knows just how STUPID it really is.
Young America brain washed by video games. Programmed to kill. It is 2008.
Young America yearning and breathing true freedom. It was 1969.
The end of a three day non stop party in the mud. When People left the concert to give birth, it was like leaving home. It’s a familiar melody, it took on new meaning. It was the end of a great era. What colors do I see? The mud browns and the grassy greens. And the off white litter on the field of that morning. The blonds and brunets, the hair of liberal proportions .I don’t remember the color of Jimi’s bandana or the color of his guitar, just that America was going through some real shit and having fun and just being free. It really was about Peace and Love and Music and the acid and the pot and the dawning of the age of Aquarius.(What ever that means). There was a war going on and everyone knew it was stupid.
I am listening to Jimi Hendrix’s Star spangled banner…I can hear violence in it, it has some scary moments. Some screeching and way far out there wobbling parts. Some fire works reminding us of gunfire.
Thinking and reading about the Woodstock 1999 concert riots I saw on Mtv. Concertgoers were tipping over vender stands and starting huge bon fires, they paid like 200$ a pop to get in. They were mad . People were sexually molested. They had to get corralled into flat bed trucks to be transported like livestock to the site. It was demeaning. The outrageous prices these concert goers paid for bottled water and commercial foods ,like pizza hut were disgusting 4$ a 12 oz. bottle of water, 12$ for a personal pan pizza. Advertisements everywhere. This was 9 years ago. And now there is a war going on and I hope the majority knows just how STUPID it really is.
Young America brain washed by video games. Programmed to kill. It is 2008.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
I Smell the World (1st draft)
I smell the world deeply and with great joy. I climb the hill up the road from my house and look over mountains and valleys in every direction. The air is good.
Pinon pine, sage, the cool wind, clay of the earth after rain. Clean, sweet. Each step I take a new mix of scents. My lover, his hair, the warm smell of his skin, the heat of his touch. I drink him in.
I drink the world in.
Wood smoke, horse dung, creosote.
I can still smell the Lower East Side at 4:30 in the morning. A mixture of possibilities and loneliness, tar and brick, constant clash of humanity and inhumanity, which are actually the same. Silence peace violence tenderness brutality. Sweet kisses on one corner, a split lip on the next. Armpit waft of bars in the early morning air, pavement, and the bloom of morning dew.
Hw do I smell the world? I’m a butterfly finding the perfect flower, tasting tasting tasting. I’ve emerged from a tight cocoon. I can hardly believe I wound myself up! Constricted, almost suffocating. I’ve emerged with wings I will not fold for anyone. That’s the way it has to be; I have to be.
When I brush against you, I leave the powder of my existence n your sleeve, your finger.
© May 10, 2008
Pinon pine, sage, the cool wind, clay of the earth after rain. Clean, sweet. Each step I take a new mix of scents. My lover, his hair, the warm smell of his skin, the heat of his touch. I drink him in.
I drink the world in.
Wood smoke, horse dung, creosote.
I can still smell the Lower East Side at 4:30 in the morning. A mixture of possibilities and loneliness, tar and brick, constant clash of humanity and inhumanity, which are actually the same. Silence peace violence tenderness brutality. Sweet kisses on one corner, a split lip on the next. Armpit waft of bars in the early morning air, pavement, and the bloom of morning dew.
Hw do I smell the world? I’m a butterfly finding the perfect flower, tasting tasting tasting. I’ve emerged from a tight cocoon. I can hardly believe I wound myself up! Constricted, almost suffocating. I’ve emerged with wings I will not fold for anyone. That’s the way it has to be; I have to be.
When I brush against you, I leave the powder of my existence n your sleeve, your finger.
© May 10, 2008
I see an America at war, an America yearning and feeling freedom. Really feeling it. But still the hippies left a lot of litter .I see fucked up car crashes and fire. He really whent out on a limb. He started doing difeerent melodies he went into “over there” for about a mnute or less, far less. It was the end of the concert , the end of a three day non stop party in the mud.
He is sketching and bleeding , it’s a fucked up versioj because America is a kind of fucked up place. The drums a rollin in and out. It’s a familiar melodie , it took on new meaning. It was the end of a great era. The country would never be as free and wild and as experimenting again. I have thought about what Jimi would be like and look like if he were alive today, I have thought about what his career would have been like in the 70’s 80’s and 90’s. His version is kind of violent but an ode to freedom at the same time.
What colors do I see? the mud browns and the grassy greens. And the off white litter on the field of that morning. I don’t remember the colr of his bandana he wore or the color of his guitar, just that America was going through some real shit and having fun. and just being free.
He is sketching and bleeding , it’s a fucked up versioj because America is a kind of fucked up place. The drums a rollin in and out. It’s a familiar melodie , it took on new meaning. It was the end of a great era. The country would never be as free and wild and as experimenting again. I have thought about what Jimi would be like and look like if he were alive today, I have thought about what his career would have been like in the 70’s 80’s and 90’s. His version is kind of violent but an ode to freedom at the same time.
What colors do I see? the mud browns and the grassy greens. And the off white litter on the field of that morning. I don’t remember the colr of his bandana he wore or the color of his guitar, just that America was going through some real shit and having fun. and just being free.
PillBox (1st draft)
I think I fell in love with Lydia Lunch's hair in the mid-80s. I had to do mine just like hers. She was the ultimate dark diva, voluptuous, sharp, intelligent. Feminine and powerful.
I dyed my hair black and fire, kept my skin pale, and rimmed my eyes with kohl and dark eye shadow. My mother! She was wondering where her golden girl went. I looked great in pics, but it was hard to pull off being a serious "goth" because I smiled way too much. Still, I clung to my anger and depression until I realized I no longer needed it to feel real, or to be intelligent or beautiful.
In my 19th year, I began to experiment with being happy. I dated a lot of boys that year, I was in love with the idea of love with no constraints. I took the philosophy that "we are one" to the extreme, in fact, put that idea into action all the time. I read Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley and books about kundalini and quantum physics. I wanted to connect with everything.
I dated David, a boy who was the color rust, from his skin to his hair, until I started to get the feeling that maybe he was some form of the Devil. At least he was one of my mental demons manifested in physical form. It didn't take long for me to get it, maybe 2 weeks (or maybe 3 dates). He kept trying to pull at me with his sadness, and I had no clue what his problem was, why he was so unhappy. I had no patience for it. I broke up with him when he told me he had written a composition for his funeral. He was 20 years-old and had music for an entire orchestra!
I was 18 and had already been through more in my lifetime than people twice my age-partly why I had no patience for David, a boy who lived in a nice house with his mom and had the time to study classical guitar and composition. Shit, I even died for a short time in a scummy hotel room. I remember looking in the mirror, face unnaturally pale and waxy, the edge of my vision going black. I was thinking, "I wonder how long it will take them to discover my body," and "I'm sorry, Mom."
I was letting the black grow out of my hair when I met David, it was growing in auburn on its own. David called it chestnut.
I have to say it. My life, the beginning of my life was a long winter. Springtime came and color flooded my lips and cheeks. I am happy when I am warm and flushed.
© May 10, 2008 Holly Troy
I dyed my hair black and fire, kept my skin pale, and rimmed my eyes with kohl and dark eye shadow. My mother! She was wondering where her golden girl went. I looked great in pics, but it was hard to pull off being a serious "goth" because I smiled way too much. Still, I clung to my anger and depression until I realized I no longer needed it to feel real, or to be intelligent or beautiful.
In my 19th year, I began to experiment with being happy. I dated a lot of boys that year, I was in love with the idea of love with no constraints. I took the philosophy that "we are one" to the extreme, in fact, put that idea into action all the time. I read Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley and books about kundalini and quantum physics. I wanted to connect with everything.
I dated David, a boy who was the color rust, from his skin to his hair, until I started to get the feeling that maybe he was some form of the Devil. At least he was one of my mental demons manifested in physical form. It didn't take long for me to get it, maybe 2 weeks (or maybe 3 dates). He kept trying to pull at me with his sadness, and I had no clue what his problem was, why he was so unhappy. I had no patience for it. I broke up with him when he told me he had written a composition for his funeral. He was 20 years-old and had music for an entire orchestra!
I was 18 and had already been through more in my lifetime than people twice my age-partly why I had no patience for David, a boy who lived in a nice house with his mom and had the time to study classical guitar and composition. Shit, I even died for a short time in a scummy hotel room. I remember looking in the mirror, face unnaturally pale and waxy, the edge of my vision going black. I was thinking, "I wonder how long it will take them to discover my body," and "I'm sorry, Mom."
I was letting the black grow out of my hair when I met David, it was growing in auburn on its own. David called it chestnut.
I have to say it. My life, the beginning of my life was a long winter. Springtime came and color flooded my lips and cheeks. I am happy when I am warm and flushed.
© May 10, 2008 Holly Troy
Friday, May 9, 2008
Bloody 'Ell
Cherry. Orange. Blood. Gooey and warm. Bright and bold.
Drops on a page, mocking words. He tells me to write things I know are untrue but when you are sitting in a cage with the bear - you do what he says to stay alive.
Drops on the stairs. Mapping out the escape. Who knows if they were ever seen? No one walks down them anyway. Don't want to picture these things but they come up.
I find constraint somewhat - having the prompts. Like "Here, think of this." I find I think thoughts while away from the task and find a flow in my head that it's gone once I sit down for the task. Like it's school and I want to avoid it. Is it avoidance? Don't know, just know it's hard with the structure and would be harder still without it, I guess.
Ruby. Yellow. Blue. Carnelian.
Drops on a page, mocking words. He tells me to write things I know are untrue but when you are sitting in a cage with the bear - you do what he says to stay alive.
Drops on the stairs. Mapping out the escape. Who knows if they were ever seen? No one walks down them anyway. Don't want to picture these things but they come up.
I find constraint somewhat - having the prompts. Like "Here, think of this." I find I think thoughts while away from the task and find a flow in my head that it's gone once I sit down for the task. Like it's school and I want to avoid it. Is it avoidance? Don't know, just know it's hard with the structure and would be harder still without it, I guess.
Ruby. Yellow. Blue. Carnelian.
Rooting
The Root. The Base. The Bass. The rhythm and the rhyme. It's where we begin and where we're planted. Deep roots. The root of it all. Root causes.
Here I am - a bit dizzy, seeing spots or checks like a cowboy - because of my shirt.
The Roots - a very cool band!
I was thinking of my Celtic roots on both sides - my ancestors - the Celts of Ireland and the Celts of Brittany. The DNA of those people - sadness - but also that beauty & expression of life, through song, poetry, dance. And sometimes because of the bittersweetness of life - those who have gotten bogged down - literally - in their minds or ideas about how things should be and not allowing their true natures to shine. But how could they do anything other than what they did - no one can really step outside cultural boundaries - especially in their times. How fortunate that these times are so expressive - that we really don't have to sit and stew anymore - we can decide different and not be outcast from our peers. The recognition and acceptance of the roots helps for your own growth. Not one garden is "weed-free" - everything has it's place. No accidents - no regrets - only learning. Gardening - tending my roots - Is it 10 minutes yet - not sure.
Here I am - a bit dizzy, seeing spots or checks like a cowboy - because of my shirt.
The Roots - a very cool band!
I was thinking of my Celtic roots on both sides - my ancestors - the Celts of Ireland and the Celts of Brittany. The DNA of those people - sadness - but also that beauty & expression of life, through song, poetry, dance. And sometimes because of the bittersweetness of life - those who have gotten bogged down - literally - in their minds or ideas about how things should be and not allowing their true natures to shine. But how could they do anything other than what they did - no one can really step outside cultural boundaries - especially in their times. How fortunate that these times are so expressive - that we really don't have to sit and stew anymore - we can decide different and not be outcast from our peers. The recognition and acceptance of the roots helps for your own growth. Not one garden is "weed-free" - everything has it's place. No accidents - no regrets - only learning. Gardening - tending my roots - Is it 10 minutes yet - not sure.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Longing and Blindness
Shnarg, hunff! My nose has been blinded by love in the form of tree pollen. I feel like an insect, tapping my antennae like a cane for chemical traces I can't process.
But there were glimmers earlier as the steam from my tea entered my nostrils with its own curiosity. The steam softened my vision and offered a momentary field of mint. One sense subdued, the other sharpened.
In ancient caves, archaeologists have found deep drifts of pollen, layered over millennia...the residue of plant sexuality blown in by wind, humans and other beasts dusting the cave floor as they entered.
Modern city planners specify only male trees along our streets. Their intent -- to save municipal funds spent cleaning-up the messy fruit of female trees. The outcome -- lovelorn males cast out pollen like love letters on the wind. Yearning, and casting out, again and again, sighs of pollen for the missing females.
And so I think, of springtime and pollen and love messages whose stickiness impairs my senses and persists over time.
But there were glimmers earlier as the steam from my tea entered my nostrils with its own curiosity. The steam softened my vision and offered a momentary field of mint. One sense subdued, the other sharpened.
In ancient caves, archaeologists have found deep drifts of pollen, layered over millennia...the residue of plant sexuality blown in by wind, humans and other beasts dusting the cave floor as they entered.
Modern city planners specify only male trees along our streets. Their intent -- to save municipal funds spent cleaning-up the messy fruit of female trees. The outcome -- lovelorn males cast out pollen like love letters on the wind. Yearning, and casting out, again and again, sighs of pollen for the missing females.
And so I think, of springtime and pollen and love messages whose stickiness impairs my senses and persists over time.
Smell Navigation.
As a dog smells a hydrant, I sniff other minds at the party of life.
And when out amung the swamplands, skunkcabbage reminds me of the bulfrogs whom play tubas at night.
The Mulch of summer plants in my mind images of what is yet to grow.
I love the smell of the sun, it is pure and gasious and lights the way for my soul.
I associate Juniperberries with a rollerskating girl. I took a deep whiff up through my nostrils one day while strolling throught her world. Images gallore!
Flowering trees swirl in the air . Here in spring they are everywhere. I love the smell of a woman's hair, as long as it is'nt from a factory.
And it will bring me back to christmas time just to behold a bouquet of rosemary.
I can smell the past. from far away. I can smell everything on my Television screen.
I can smell the future , and it is a dream. of what is yet to grow.
I love the smell of the sun, it is loving and insightful and lights the way for our souls.
And when out amung the swamplands, skunkcabbage reminds me of the bulfrogs whom play tubas at night.
The Mulch of summer plants in my mind images of what is yet to grow.
I love the smell of the sun, it is pure and gasious and lights the way for my soul.
I associate Juniperberries with a rollerskating girl. I took a deep whiff up through my nostrils one day while strolling throught her world. Images gallore!
Flowering trees swirl in the air . Here in spring they are everywhere. I love the smell of a woman's hair, as long as it is'nt from a factory.
And it will bring me back to christmas time just to behold a bouquet of rosemary.
I can smell the past. from far away. I can smell everything on my Television screen.
I can smell the future , and it is a dream. of what is yet to grow.
I love the smell of the sun, it is loving and insightful and lights the way for our souls.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Welcome to the World (1st draft)
Welcome to the world, I’ve been Waiting for you. I think maybe my grandpa said that. He liked me. I felt that he liked me.
I see a man. He’s in a giant purple turban, the wizard of Oz on acid meets Willy Wanka, old-stylee. What was that actor’s name? I had such a crush on him – his big buggy blue eyes and big head with curly hair. Oh yeah, Gene Wilder!
My old boyfriend Joe reminded me of Gene Wilder. He was probably the first honest-to-goodness freak I ever fell for – I was home at last!
Joe showed me the joys of tape, how it feels on your lips and fingers. No, he didn’t gag me! He showed me how good it felt to put a piece of scotch tape on my lips, allowing it to hang off my bottom lip so the long piece was loose, and blow. It would vibrate, tickle. A pleasant sensation.
Funny, I completely remember tape, but I have no memory of ever kissing him. I’m trying really hard right now to remember – no, a kiss doesn’t come to mind. I can’t see it.
We were friends though, that is true. We laughed a lot. I remember driving across the country with him and the first time I ever drove in snow was in the Sierra Nevadas. It was September and we’re driving in a blizzard down this winding mountain. I’m wearing a t-shirt, I didn’t realize Northern California was cold – I think the heaviest jacket I had at the time was denim. (Come to think f it, I’m still pretty crappily equipped for cold weather, but that’s another story). Anyway, I’m driving in the snow for the first time in my life on the Sierra Nevadas down a very windy and terrifying road and Joe gets the idea that it would be fun to put his hands up my shirt and fondle my breasts. I start screaming, “This is not a good time!” I mean I’m scared, practically in tears, but I won’t take my hands off the wheel nor will I look away from the road. He’s laughing. Turns out he really has no idea how terrified I am.
Again, I don’t remember what his hands felt like, but I do remember the t-shirt. It was given to me by Deb Parker when I danced one Sunday night at the World. Sunday was lesbian night – they called it “Girlworld”. That’s what my t-shirt said. It was white and there was a line drawing if a girl in a champagne glass on the friend. I bitched up the shirt by cutting off the sleeves and cutting out the neck. I liked to wear 1950s lace bras under my t-shirts back then – especially light-colored t-shirts. Scandalous in my hometown, but the fashion du jour on the Lower East Side. Lots of necklaces and bracelets, too.
Shit, I recently saw a rerun of Sex in the City, and the Carrie character wore about three different outfits in one episode where her top was white but her bras were neon pink or blue or black. Of course, she’s not wearing t-shirts and her blouses are all probably silk or at least outlandishly expensive. It’s just not the same.
©May 5, 2008
I see a man. He’s in a giant purple turban, the wizard of Oz on acid meets Willy Wanka, old-stylee. What was that actor’s name? I had such a crush on him – his big buggy blue eyes and big head with curly hair. Oh yeah, Gene Wilder!
My old boyfriend Joe reminded me of Gene Wilder. He was probably the first honest-to-goodness freak I ever fell for – I was home at last!
Joe showed me the joys of tape, how it feels on your lips and fingers. No, he didn’t gag me! He showed me how good it felt to put a piece of scotch tape on my lips, allowing it to hang off my bottom lip so the long piece was loose, and blow. It would vibrate, tickle. A pleasant sensation.
Funny, I completely remember tape, but I have no memory of ever kissing him. I’m trying really hard right now to remember – no, a kiss doesn’t come to mind. I can’t see it.
We were friends though, that is true. We laughed a lot. I remember driving across the country with him and the first time I ever drove in snow was in the Sierra Nevadas. It was September and we’re driving in a blizzard down this winding mountain. I’m wearing a t-shirt, I didn’t realize Northern California was cold – I think the heaviest jacket I had at the time was denim. (Come to think f it, I’m still pretty crappily equipped for cold weather, but that’s another story). Anyway, I’m driving in the snow for the first time in my life on the Sierra Nevadas down a very windy and terrifying road and Joe gets the idea that it would be fun to put his hands up my shirt and fondle my breasts. I start screaming, “This is not a good time!” I mean I’m scared, practically in tears, but I won’t take my hands off the wheel nor will I look away from the road. He’s laughing. Turns out he really has no idea how terrified I am.
Again, I don’t remember what his hands felt like, but I do remember the t-shirt. It was given to me by Deb Parker when I danced one Sunday night at the World. Sunday was lesbian night – they called it “Girlworld”. That’s what my t-shirt said. It was white and there was a line drawing if a girl in a champagne glass on the friend. I bitched up the shirt by cutting off the sleeves and cutting out the neck. I liked to wear 1950s lace bras under my t-shirts back then – especially light-colored t-shirts. Scandalous in my hometown, but the fashion du jour on the Lower East Side. Lots of necklaces and bracelets, too.
Shit, I recently saw a rerun of Sex in the City, and the Carrie character wore about three different outfits in one episode where her top was white but her bras were neon pink or blue or black. Of course, she’s not wearing t-shirts and her blouses are all probably silk or at least outlandishly expensive. It’s just not the same.
©May 5, 2008
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